


The Killer in Me

by monimala



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gap Filler, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-<i>Age of Ultron</i> exploration of Natasha's thoughts...and her darkest truths.</p><p>
  <i>Sometimes she imagines them both in bed with her.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Killer in Me

Sometimes she imagines them both in bed with her. The beauty and his beast, crushing her with the weight of his intellect and the breadth of his strength. Bruce would hesitate, stammer and fumble and blush...and likely debate his way out of her arms. The Hulk would just take. He would smash. Her defenses, her headboard, what's left of her heart and the shell that is her body. The walls would fall down around them and the world would break into pieces.

This, Natasha thinks, is why Bruce ran from her and why he still continues to hide away. Because she craves his monster and he wants to be only the man. She is, after all, what the Red Room made her. Like recognizes like and is drawn to it, moth to flame. The killer in her relishes Bruce Banner and the Hulk's duality: the gentle facade and the rage beneath. She _volunteered_ to be the Hulk's anchor, reliving that terrible chase on the helicarrier and how close she came to death. It could've been Steve, who calms everyone just by being. It could've been Thor, whose hammer and head are equally hard. But she said “I'll do it. Let it be me.” And she whispered not to tame him, but to tame herself.

She comes hardest when she pictures a brutal green hand palming her abdomen, the thick thumb pressing inside her with no finesse...thrusting when she whispers, “Big Guy” and only stopping when she says the sun is getting low. Natasha, Natalia, Nat, Tasha...it does not matter what you call her, she is not a good woman and not a clean one. Her fantasies are as dark as her reality. The Hulk scents destruction on her skin, knows what they both are. Bruce is too innocent, too analytical, too human for what lives within her.

So, of course he fled rather than have her call to his dark half again. Because she would have. Over and over. Not just for the mission but for her own selfish desires. The Avengers need the Hulk, but she needs him more. His big, blunt fingers swallowing hers. His bloodlust dwarfing hers. Only next to someone so huge do her demons seem small. Bruce must hate her for that. And she cannot blame him. But she _can_ miss him. Him, his brilliant mind and shy demeanor...and his instinct-driven green co-pilot, too.

_Come home_ , she wishes while tangled in SHIELD-issue sheets, her bones weary from daily training exercises.  _Send a postcard, a beacon, a flare._ Tell her that they've both survived. That they've found a way to coexist, the human and the creature finally united.

Her dream is Bruce's nightmare.

But, then again, so is her waking.

She's killed more people than her sweet scientist could dare to count. She is as covered in red as the Hulk is in green. There are no Gamma rays to blame. She is not enhanced. Not Inhuman. She is just a weapon. Point her at a target. Pull the trigger. She has no alter ego to blame. Her beast  _is_ her beauty. And, like the spider she was named for, it has torn so many apart. Left corpses in its wake.

Even on his self-imposed exile, brimming with resentment and weary from grief, Bruce must imagine them making love. This is not her ego speaking but simply a fact. As much as he may want to deny it, her body and her face and even the brightness of her hair are irresistible. As much as he may want to ignore it, there is something between them. She knows he would make it beautiful, kind and generous and quiet. There would be hope. That spark, that delusion, that they might be able to outrun what's always chasing them. He would touch her— _has_ touched her—and not see a loaded gun.

No one ever does until it's too late.

They don't realize that she wants monsters in her bed so she isn't the only one.

For her, the sun isn't low. For her, the sun set years ago.

 

 

\--end--

 

May 5, 2015


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